Sine Nomine
by Jean Hicks
Summary: Without a name. A series of one-shots inspired by 'Sherlock Head Canons' on tumblr. Cute, funny, angsty, all that, and more. Updated irregularly, but each chapter is a short story on its own. All characters, all times, and if there are ships they will be John/Sherlock and Mycroft/Lestrade. R&R and enjoy! (If you can think of a better summary, let me know!)
1. Number 2404

**A/N:** Upon the recommendation of a fellow fanfic member (ChloeShandon), I found Sherlock Head Canon's on tumblr. I've decided to start this series of one-shots from some of their posts. Will be updated as I write new one-shots, but as each chapter stands alone I will mark the status of this story as complete. May include all characters, some ships (John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Lestrade), and some cursing. Nothing about K+, usually light and funny but may through in some angst (come on, its me we're talking about here). Enjoy!

The first is head canon **#2404**: Sherlock and John played Monopoly once. It ended with someone calling the fire department.

* * *

They have been drinking. In the end it is the only explanation. It is a pure, unadulterated, inconceivably stupid act of drunken men. As they stumble into the flat and DI Greg Lestrade lands on the sofa without any grace, John suggests they play a game.

"Cards?"

"No. No… how about… Monopoly?"

Both Sherlock and Greg groan, the former rubbing his eyes and glaring at his flat mate from the doorway. John, ever the optimist when intoxicated, proceeds to withdraw the game board from the top shelf of the closet.

"Really?"

John just smiles and lays the board out on the coffee table.

Sherlock sighs dramatically and flops into his chair with much more grace than Lestrade could ever hope for. He smirks.

Lestrade sits up on the couch and removes his jacket. "Fine…" He consents, "But I'm the Scotty."

"Nonsense!" Sherlock says, suddenly much more alert. "John must be the Scotty."

"And why is this?"

"Because the Scotty is loyal and true and trustworthy."

"I'm trustworthy…" Lestrade says with a pout.

"No. John is the Scotty. _You_ can be the iron."

"I don't want to be the iron."

"I don't care!"

John is seriously considering folding the game up, but he doesn't. "Oi, you two, just draw your pieces out of a hat or something."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock moves his wheelbarrow past 'Go' and Lestrade glares down at his thimble. John's Scotty is already on the railroad.

"Sherlock, roll the dice where everyone can see them. I won't have you pulling any tricks."

"Says the dirty banker!"

"What?"

"You shorted me on the last round."

"No, I didn't, Greg. I gave you two fifties instead of a hundred."

"Ah, John, Lestrade's already forgotten basic arithmetic…"

"Ha! Go straight to jail you gloating bastard."

"Sherlock, don't pout. You just have to roll doubles."

"I'm not pouting."

"Ah, of course not. I'd like to buy that space I think."

"Oh, you're going to regret that."

"Why?"

"Don't you regret most of the things in your life, Lestrade?"

"Sherlock! Can't you ever be nice to the guests?"

"HA! Doubles. I'll buy Broadway now."

"You're not on Broadway…"

"Wait a moment…"

"Sherlock, do you even know how this game works?"

"Why would that have been important to keep around, John?"

"Because we're playing the game right _now_ Sherlock! Christ… I need another beer."

"Yep."

"Make that three, if you can, John."

John makes a point to read the rules, all of them, loudly and clearly as the three men drink their beer.

"All right, now that we're all clear. Let's start again."

"Can I be the Sco-"

"No."

"But…"

"No."

"Fine. I'll be the cannon."

"I want to…"

"Sherlock. I swear to God. Put it down and just pick something else."

"Fine."

Five turns pass peacefully.

"You can't buy that."

"Why?"

"Because..."

"That's a convincing argument."

"John. Tell Greg he's breaking the rules."

"I'm not your baby sitter, and until forty five minutes ago you didn't even know what the rules were."

"Oi, triple doubles go to jail!"

Sherlock pouts for four turns. John comes to visit him in jail and Sherlock thinks this is very kind.

"You won a beauty contest, apparently."

"The judges must have been blind."

"John, remind me again why this was a good idea?"

"I'm beginning to forget myself."

"I need a cigarette."

"Here." John hands Greg a pack he procures from the underneath side of the skull on the mantle.

"Oi!" Sherlock forgets the fact that he is pouting. "Those are my cigarettes!"

"Mhmm." John agrees as he fishes a lighter from the hidden compartment in the desk drawer.

"You can't just give away _my_ cigarettes! I'll report you for theft of property!"

"Ah, and to whom are you going to make this report? The Detective Inspector?" Greg laughs and lights up a cigarette.

Sherlock stands and snatches the cigarette from Lestrade's mouth. "Bastards." He inhales and then sits back down. Greg lights up a second cigarette and rolls the dice.

"Don't see much gold in your hand there, Sherlock."

"Piss off, Lestrade. I'm perfectly capable of winning a children's game."

Three cigarettes later Sherlock throws his money down and knocks his wheelbarrow over in protest. "This game is dull, boring, and an utter waste of time."

"You just don't like that you lost." John smiles.

"I didn't lose! I _intentionally_… lost." Lestrade smirks and rolls the dice again. "Oh, you're going to keep playing?"

"Gotta see which of us wins in the end, Sherlock. John's put up a good fight but I think I can take him."

"Well, if that's the case."

Sherlock snags the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, folds his knees under his chin and watches the game.

John is drowsy with drink and Lestrade is even slower than average but the game passes peacefully—well, peacefully when Sherlock isn't making caustic remarks on their haphazard playing style.

"You can't just put hotels on everything, John!"

"Well of course _you_ would think that's a good idea, Lestrade."

Eventually Sherlock's commentary slows.

Greg and John bask in the silence and continue rolling dice, until finally Lestrade sniffs the air. "Oi…" He says. "Smell that?"

John sniffs cautiously. "Smells like smoke…" He looks sideways to Sherlock. His flatmate has fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand, the curtain is in flames at the bottom.

"Christ!" John exclaims and Sherlock startles, tossing the cigarette across the room where it lands in a pile of papers that ignite.

"Christ!" Greg says, dashing into the kitchen to try and find the fire extinguisher. "Call 9-9-9!"

John fumbles for his mobile and pulls Sherlock from the chair where he sits watching the fire crawl up the curtain with startling speed.

Greg finds the fire extinguisher but the smoke has already started the alarm downstairs. "Come on." He says once the flames are extinguished and they are coughing around a mixture of burnt paper and acidic tobacco smoke.

"Thanks." John is trying to shove his coat over his shoulders and wrap Sherlock's scarf around his neck. Sherlock is pouting again.

"Three months of research, John." He says.

"You're lucky it's not the whole flat." Greg is laughing. "Hey, you're the one that wanted a smoke!" John reminds.

"You were the one who wanted to play." Greg says and Sherlock laughs. John herds them down the stairs and out into the cold. Mrs. Hudson is waiting on the sidewalk.

"What in heaven's name are you boys up to this late at night?" She says, wrapping her arms around herself. "Smoke and fire upstairs! Damages are going on your rent, you two!" She gestures to John and Sherlock. Greg stumbles on the sidewalk and Sherlock grabs his elbow.

"Sorry ma'am." Greg says politely. "We were just playing a little Monopoly." She looks confused but then shakes her head.

"We'll make sure it's all righted in the morning, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock adds diplomatically.

A fire truck pulls up and in its flashing lights and Sherlock smiles. "It's been a good evening, I think."

"A good…" John pinches his brow and sighs. "You would, Sherlock. You would think that an evening which ends in _fire_ is _good_."

Greg laughs again and this time Sherlock joins him, leaning on each other for support. John can't help but laugh at the two of them. "Next time, I want to be the Scotty." Greg is breathless from laughter.

Sherlock smiles wide, "I think that can be arranged."


	2. Number 2358

**A/N: **Quick one here, because 1) the prompt didn't lend itself to much else, 2) I felt unsure with how it turned out, and 3) it gave me a new idea for a Sherlock/Mycroft story.

Head canon **#2358**: Sherlock doesn't eat regularly, but when he does eat he loads up. John once sat back and watched in amazement as the man ate an entire pizza in one sitting.

* * *

He has learned not to ask, "Are you hungry?" because Sherlock is so used to neglecting his mortal body that even if he _were_ hungry it would hardly matter.

He has learned not to ask, "Have you eaten today?" because Sherlock will make an unkind and unflattering comparison between John and Mummy or, even worse, John and Mycroft. Further prying on the subject elicits an exasperated sigh and snappy answer of 'yes' or 'it's irrelevant'. Either way, Sherlock will not eat just out of spite.

So he has learned instead to ask very simply:

"Dinner?"

There are three typical response to this simple question:

"No."

Either Sherlock has eaten prior to John getting home, or he is thinking about something. To rule out the first option, John checks the kitchen sink. When on a case, Sherlock will go days without eating. Eating, he claims, slows him down. The first time John pointed out that eating actually provides _fuel_ for everyone else's brain, Sherlock looked at him with an air of disgust and asked just exactly how many ways his brain was like everyone else's.

John had to concede to this point, and though it rallied against everything in his medically educated mind, Sherlock had lived twenty-seven years (many of them on his own) before meeting John. Obviously, he knew his limits. Still, John will make himself dinner and place a plate of toast on the coffee table or computer desk just within Sherlock's reach. He goes about his business. Sometimes the toast is eaten. Sometimes it isn't.

"If I must…"

Usually said with a sigh, this is the most neutral response towards food that John will receive. It translates into, "Yes, I will eat" but he is not particularly hungry. At this point eating is viewed a necessity, but not an inconvenience. Sherlock will eat, but he doesn't enjoy the food. He enjoys John's company as they sit across from each other in a booth at the café or the bad telly they put on as they eat Chinese food out of takeout containers on the couch. He enjoys watching John cook.

From these nights, one would get the opinion that Sherlock is a light eater. He picks at his plate and eats what he wants, feeling no shame in packing what he doesn't for consumption at a later date. John often takes Sherlock's left-overs for lunches at the clinic.

The final response is rare, but it occurs often enough that John has learned its meaning:

"God, yes."

After finishing a case (and therefore recovering from a self-imposed fast) or after periods of extended boredom, Sherlock is happy at the idea of eating. He recommends a favorite restaurant or pub, he calls in a pizza from the delivery place down the street, or he cooks.

Admittedly, John was shocked when Sherlock first cooked him dinner. "This is… fantastic." The disbelief in his voice had to be thick, because Sherlock smirked a dissatisfied smirk.

"Cooking and chemistry are essentially the same subject. I am a chemist John, I can cook when I am motivated to do so."

Nights like these, John is surprised at the amount of food Sherlock consumes. He treats John to dinner and then dessert, eating a full entrée and dessert himself, picking the rest from John's plate. He enjoys every moment of the meal. He smiles and laughs and savors and John is fascinated by the life that fills Sherlock's eyes.

John asked him about it once. "Food is like sex, John. The longer you abstain from sex, the better sex feels when you have it." He sips his wine and waves his hand in the air. John tries to hide the blush that tints his cheeks. "Ergo, after the case we just finished, this meal was positively endorphin raising." He leans in conspiratorially and smiles his large, honest smile. "Now, what do you say about tiramisu?"

Unlike the bloated feeling John gets after a particularly heavy meal, Sherlock never seems to slow down after eating such large amounts. He leans back and crosses his long legs and smiles like a cat laid out in the sun. John can almost swear he purrs.

"How do you do it?" John asks one evening as they're wrapping up a long dinner at Angelo's. John had ordered pasta, and Sherlock had ordered a pizza for himself. They spent a good three hours eating, talking, and in John's case, drinking.

"Do what?" Sherlock asks in return, gaze fixed out of the window as he surveys the passersby.

"Eat so much! Christ, you're so…" He gestures with his hands, the flush of alcohol in his cheeks. "Small." He forms a shape similar to what he would imagine Sherlock's waste would be if he were to wrap his hands around it. "You're trim, and yet you just ate a whole pizza. Where do you put it all!?"

Sherlock looks back at John, a twinkle in his eye. "I don't make a habit of eating entire pizzas, John…" John nods, this is logical.

Angelo brings them the bill. Sherlock hands him his credit card. John is draining the last of his beer as Angelo adds in his friendly accent, "Yea, and I suppose you boys get enough _exercise_ together to keep both of you fit for the army."

John spits his beer back into the glass as he chokes, Angelo laughs a hearty laugh and turns away to the register, and Sherlock leans back and smiles, content.


	3. Number 2497

**A/N: **Head canon **#2497**: Although Sherlock isn't one for affection or sentiment, he sometimes goes through short, rare periods where all he wants to do is be close to another person, and since John is the person he's usually around when this happens he'll usually cuddle up in his lap like a cat. [John has] gotten use[d] to this and enjoys the time they have together when this happens. (BONUS Mycroft!)

* * *

John is sitting on the couch watching telly when Sherlock pads in from the bedroom. His bare feet make soft noises on the hardwood floor as he paces. "What's on your mind, Sherlock?" John says finally. The man doesn't answer. He comes and sits on the other end of the couch and pretends to stare at the telly. John just smiles and waits.

Sherlock gets like this, sometimes. He spends so much time neglecting sentiment and shunning affection that eventually it catches up with him. Late at night he'll find John sitting on the couch or in the chair or, just once, lying in bed with his laptop. He'll start off distant, at the end of the couch or in the other chair or sitting at the desk in the bedroom, but as time passes he'll inch closer and closer until there isn't much space between him and John.

At first John wasn't sure what to make of this behavior, but he learned that the only thing Sherlock wants is to be close, to be touched and sometimes held. He wants to feel a little less alone, a little less lost in the vast expanse of his brain. He rarely speaks to John. Rarely does anything but lay his head on John's lap and curl into a ball at his side as he is now. He faces John's stomach and sighs, content, when John places his hand into his curls and runs small circles across his scalp.

* * *

When Sherlock was young and his mind got too loud for his liking, he would set off across the estate in search of his brother. It's Easter, now, and it's not that Sherlock's mind is too loud, it's that it is too quiet and he can hear his parents fighting downstairs. They are arguing about him, about how he's not normal and how Father wants to send him to a special school. Mummy is yelling that he's still a child, and he still has a lot of growing to do. He doesn't want to listen to their arguing anymore.

So, he leaves his room and pads down the hallway. He knocks on his brother's door and Mycroft calls for him to come in. He's sitting on the bench of the window, reading a textbook on international politics from university. "Mummy and Father are fighting." Sherlock says quietly. There is a soft sunlight coming in from the window and for a moment Sherlock is fascinated with the patterns the shadows of the leaves make on the wall.

"I know." Mycroft answers without looking from his book.

"I think that it's silly for them to be fighting." The younger Holmes says finally, walking over to the bench and crawling onto the cushion. He sits at the edge and swings his feet. Mycroft hums in agreement and turns the page.

Eventually, Sherlock squirms under Mycroft's arms and lays against his chest. Mycroft smiles and turns his cheek to rest on Sherlock's long curly hair for a moment before returning to his book. Sherlock sighs and rubs against his brother's sternum like a cat, luxuriating in the feel of the soft button up shirt on his cheek and the hard, steady beat of his brother's heart beneath his ear.

He stays like that for hours. Mycroft says nothing. The leaves rustle in the trees and the sun shifts from midday to sunset. Sherlock naps, occasionally shifts as Mycroft pulls up a new book or a new notepad, and relishes in this rare and beautiful human contact.

* * *

For the first few weeks after Sherlock returns from the dead he is desperate for human contact. He touches John at every possible opportunity. They walk down the sidewalk with shoulders and hips bumping. When they are talking to Lestrade, Sherlock grabs hold of John's jumpers with the tips of his fingers and refuses to let go. If Lestrade notices he doesn't mention it. Over dinner their knees touch.

"I guess you missed this." John says two weeks after Sherlock's resurrection. He laughs a somewhat bitter laugh. Sherlock is perched between John's knees on the floor, leaning his head onto John's thigh, eyes closed. John is typing on his laptop, and the tapping of the keys along with the gentle whirring of the fan is relaxing.

"I missed you." He says as if this is enough of an explanation. John closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table.

"Certainly you found someone else to play pet to in three years."

Sherlock turns around and stares at John with eyes that look wounded.

"There was no one else." His voice is rough. In a motion that is so fluid it shouldn't be human he is now perched on the couch, inches away from John's face. John isn't sure what to say. "Only you." Sherlock whispers. He sounds like a child; he bites his lower lip and stares at John. "Please…"

Suddenly John feels like an asshole for even bringing it up. He shakes his head and readjusts himself on the couch so that Sherlock can lay upon his chest. The man scrambles, all limbs and bone, to lay parallel to John, hands curled into his jumper. John realizes Sherlock his shaking. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly, places a hand on Sherlock's hair. He won't look down, because if he admits Sherlock is crying he's not sure that he could keep from doing the same.

Instead, he calms his heartbeat. Sherlock listens to each thump as tears roll down his face. He keeps his hands clenched in John's jumper and focuses on the contact. "I was so alone…" He says. His voice is tight and rough.

John nods, the first tears escaping his own eyes. "Me too, Sherlock… Me too."

* * *

Years later and Sherlock and John are living in Sussex. The days of crime solving are behind them. Sometimes when Sherlock is bored he will work on a few cases via email, but usually he keeps himself busy with his bees. John writes books, reads mystery novels, and sometimes paints.

It's winter, and it's snowing. John is sitting on the couch reading an Agatha Christie novel. Sherlock pads in from his bedroom, wrapped in a bathrobe and for a moment John sees a younger man. He smiles.

"Budge over." Sherlock says, placing himself into John's lap.

"How long will you continue to imitate a house cat?" John says with a laugh. Sherlock turns over and breaths a hot breath into John's jumper as he sighs. Both men smile. Sherlock's voice is thin and strong when he replies,

"With you, John... until the end of my days."


	4. Number 2082

**A/N: **Two in one day! I'm in a writing mood this weekend guys! :-) Also, someone pointed out to me a pretty obvious mistake in Chapter 2... no Thanksgiving in England! Sorry about that folks, it's been fixed. I write and post these pretty quickly as they are simply time fillers for me, so feel free to point out any glaring errors and I'll do my best to fix them. (But please, be nice!)

Head Canon **#2082**: Lestrade and John have only seen Mycroft physically violent once. At the time Anderson had been standing near the Holmes brothers and found out their relations and started to insult their mother. Mycroft has a surprisingly strong right hook. (Bonus Holmes-style flirting.)

* * *

The wind is cold and it whips Sherlock's coat around his legs as he leaves the brownstone building. John and Lestrade follow quickly behind him. "I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft was already on his way." Sherlock is saying in an exaggerated, dramatic flair. "As a matter of fact, there's his car now. There's nothing else I can do for you Detective Inspector."

"Wait…" John says, catching up to Sherlock where he stands on the sidewalk. "Wait. Exactly why is this a case that involves Mycroft?"

"Foreign diplomat." Sherlock says quickly, a scowl set about his visage as he watches the car roll down the street. "Always spoiling our fun."

"That guy in the brothel!? A foreign diplomat."

"Second hand to the President of the United States."

"I would have recognized him when we saw him, then," John stutters. "Especially if you recognized him."

"I didn't recognize him, it was obvious if you just looked at him, John. Besides, rarely do we recognize those who have the truest power… just look at my dear brother." John has to concede this point. He turns back to where Lestrade is still directing Anderson and Donovan up to the crime scene.

"Sherlock. I figured I would see you here." Mycroft says from behind them. Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs. "Needless to say your expertise is no longer… necessary. Do be a dear and inform the Scotland Yard that they are done here."

"Oh, Mycroft, it was such a lovely day until you came along." The younger Holmes declares and then stalks back towards Lestrade. John just smirks.

"Doctor Watson, I trust you are well." Mycroft says, fiddling with the walnut curve of his umbrella. John nods. "Well, I suppose we best go see what our government friends have gotten themselves in to." He motions John ahead with a regal wave of his hand. He seems bored.

Sherlock has apparently delivered his message because Lestrade is bellowing at Anderson and Donovan to come back down the stairs, and "Don't touch anything or so help me!" The two officers amble back down the stairs.

"What's the problem, Lestrade?" Donovan says, looking from Sherlock to John to the new man in the suit. She's seen him around before, but has no idea who he is.

"Not our case anymore. Mr. Holmes is here to take it off our hands."

Anderson looks at Sherlock like a fish with his mouth held open. "You mean to say he," He jabs a finger in Sherlock and John's general direction, "Is going to take this case over on his own?"

Mycroft looks at Anderson with even more disdain that Sherlock does. John can't help but laugh. "I think that the Detective Inspector is referring to my brother," Sherlock sneers, "You idiotic lump."

Fish-like Anderson turns to face the man in the suit. Mycroft shifts his umbrella to his other hand and shakes the Yarders hand. "Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet one of the Yards… finest." He lets go of Anderson's hand with a look of mild disgust then turns to Lestrade.

"Detective Inspector, if you could be so kind as to make sure all the previously collected evidence finds its way to my people… in the best condition your agents are capable of, please." Greg smiles and nods.

"All right." He turns to Anderson and Donovan, as well as a few other yards who have gathered around the building. "I'll need you to turn over your camera memory cards, and anything else you managed to collect before Mr. Holmes—either one of them—showed up."

"Wait." Anderson says suddenly. "They're brothers?"

"Yes?"

"As in, they had the same parents?"

"That is the definition of brothers, Donovan." Sherlock says scathingly. Lestrade sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Is this relevant?"

John has faded into the background. Sherlock is scowling at Anderson, and Mycroft is scowling at Donovan. It's the first time that John has seen the two of them look like brothers.

"Gah… what would it have been like to grow up with the freak?" Donovan says to Anderson as she fishes the media card out of her camera. Anderson laughs. John watches Mycroft tense at the word. Sherlock, as usual, does not react.

"I don't know, he seems to be kind of a freak himself." Anderson hands his media card to Lestrade who is glaring at the both of them. The Detective Inspector turns to Mycroft.

"Here. I'm sorry about my staff's remarkable lack of professional behavior, Mr. Holmes. I'll ensure that they are reprimanded appropriately." He leans towards Mycroft and speaks in a hushed voice, "They're always this insufferable, Mycroft, don't let it bother you."

"It's quite all right, Gregory." He says in an undertone, and then a bit louder, "Those incapable of proving themselves often stoop to the level of insulting others." Mycroft smiles a stiff smile and slips the media cards into his pocket. This earns an honest laugh from Sherlock whose sour expression has been shifting to glee since the interaction began.

Now both Anderson and Donovan are doing respectable fish impressions. They quickly snap out of it and finish gathering their evidence, each taking turns glaring at Mycroft who only offers a false saccharine smile.

John and Lestrade are thinking that they might just escape this awkward encounter without any major disruptions, but by this point they should know better. Anderson opens his mouth and, well when they look back on it they can't remember exactly _what_ Anderson said, but it had something to do with Mummy Holmes.

Suddenly Sherlock is ranting and approaching Anderson rapidly. Before he can take two steps, Mycroft has turned on his foot and thrown his right fist directly into Anderson's nose and eye. Donovan steps back with her hands raised in the air. Anderson's nose cracks pleasantly beneath Mycroft's fist and then there's blood. He falls back onto the sidewalk and curses thickly through bubbled, bloody gasps of air.

Lestrade and John have wide eyes and are unable to move. Sherlock is still advancing on Anderson but Mycroft holds up his left arm and blocks his brother's path. Donovan is now holding a bundled piece of a footie to Anderson's nose. His eye is swelling.

"You're insane!" She exclaims. "You broke his bloody nose!"

Mycroft flexes his fist and examines his knuckles. "Well. It has been a while since I had done that. I don't usually like to get my hands dirty." Sherlock is smiling now, glaring at Anderson and Donovan on the pavement. "Terribly sorry for the disruption, Gregory. I best be going, I think. Sherlock, John, would you like to join me?" Mycroft says as he turns to leave.

Lestrade is still awestruck. "You're not going to let him leave are you?" Donovan says loudly. "He just assaulted an officer of the Yard!"

"I didn't see anything." Lestrade says, "And next time I suggest you treat others with a bit more respect, you two." He turns and walks to catch up with the three men headed toward the car.

Sherlock has his hands buried in his coat pockets. John is trying not to laugh. "God, I wish I could remember his face for the rest of my life."

"Yes, apparently my brother still has it in him. I haven't seen you do that in years!" Sherlock almost sounds proud.

"He was… quite insufferable." Mycroft is trying to be appear bored, but he's elated and Sherlock can tell.

"Oh, usually when you show up, Mycroft, it's tedious but this was… fantastic!" Sherlock hands through is hair and smiles a large, toothy smile. The two men laugh, and the older Holmes' chuckles softly.

"Detective Inspector!" Mycroft says, when the man catches up with him. "Coming to arrest me for assaulting a Yarder?"

Lestrade laughs. "Coming to congratulate you on a job well done, actually. I've been wanting to do that for years." Sherlock and John laugh harder. "Just don't tell the powers that be that I said that."

"No need to fear for that," Sherlock says trying to catch his breath. "My brother is the British Government."

"A little modesty, Sherlock, please." John can swear he sees Mycroft blush, and if he noticed it then Sherlock must have. Lestrade, as is often the case, is clueless.

"We're going to dinner." Sherlock says suddenly. "Care to join us, Lestrade?"

"I couldn't impose on a family gathering." He says sheepishly.

"Nonsense." Mycroft says faster than Sherlock can reply. He wraps his hand around the umbrella. "I mean to say, you would be interrupting nothing." He opens the car door.

"I really should make sure the crime scene gets handled…" He turns back toward the building and is surprised to find a swarm of black suited individuals quite efficiently clearing the area. He shrugs his shoulders and climbs in the car. Mycroft smiles a genuine smile and opens the passenger door.

"You'll learn," John says in sotto voce. "It's just best not to argue with Mycroft Holmes."


	5. Number 2536

**AN: **I feel like I should take a moment to say that all of these stories are un-beta'd. I appreciate your patience with all of the typos and tense errors. Hope you continue to enjoy these short (?) snippets!

Head canon **#2536**: Sherlock and Mycroft's father hand a long-term affair, which everyone in the house knew about, even though he thought he was getting away with it. Seven-year-old Sherlock openly reveled it in front of both parents and Mycroft, making their father chose between his lover and his wife. He chose his lover. This drove their mother to drink and neglect; she blamed Sherlock for her husband's leaving, believing that the affair would pass if it hadn't been brought up. Mycroft had to mother Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock likes Mummy. They play pirates and cook together in the kitchen. He thinks Mummy smells nice, and he likes the way she'll let him lean into her hip and clutch at her dress when they're in public. Sherlock is five, and he is scared of very little, but one time while Mummy was shopping he wandered off. He thought he would be lost forever until she found him curled under a clothing rack and crying. Since then, he clutches her dress in his little hand and follows her like a puppy through the crowded stores and empty shops.

Sherlock likes his nanny too. She reads him stories and watches over him when Mycroft is away and Mummy is busy at some social function. He thinks she's a lot like a second Mummy. Once, when he was supposed to be sleeping, he wandered into the library and found Father and his nanny together. Father looked angry. Nanny looked flushed, and she was extremely short as she tucked him into bed again. "It's all right, you know." Sherlock said with his small bright voice. "You're like Mummy. It's all right. I'm sure she'll be happy."

"Sherlock." She had scolded him. "You mustn't tell anyone what you saw tonight! Especially your mother."

Had Sherlock been old enough he would have realized the affair for what it was, but he was only five. He trusted his nanny. He trusted Father. He went to sleep, and he never told his mother what he saw.

When Mycroft came home for Christmas holiday, Sherlock asked him about his nanny and their father. Mycroft's lips got very tight like they did when he was angry at someone. Later he heard yelling from the study and when Mycroft emerged he had an angry red mark across his face. Sherlock felt bad. He knew he shouldn't have told anyone anything at all.

His nanny was gone the next day.

This only made Sherlock feel worse.

Two years pass. Mummy decides they shouldn't have a nanny anymore. She still plays pirates and cooks, but she leaves Sherlock to his own devices more often than not. She gets him a violin, and a violin teacher. Sherlock likes the violin, but he misses his nanny. "All boys have to grow up, Sherlock. You can't have a nursemaid forever!" Mummy says finally, and her voice is tight like she's about to cry.

Sherlock knows Father still sees his nanny, though, because he smells like her perfume and sometimes if Sherlock is really observant he notices a bit of lipstick on Father's collar. Mummy doesn't wear lipstick. He wonders why his nanny had to leave if Father was still going to see her all the time. Couldn't she keep living with them? They are eating dinner and he's pouting over how unfair everything is. He pushes carrots around on his plate.

"What's on your mind, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks across the table.

Sherlock considers answering with a lie, but Mycroft has asked him a serious question. He sighs.

"Yes, son, you've hardly touched your food." Father cuts into his chicken and smiles a falsely pleasant smile.

"I've touched it plenty. I just haven't eaten any of it." He continues to stab peas onto the tines of his fork.

"You know what I meant, Sherlock." Father's voice is dangerously gruff. "What are you thinking about?"

The table is silent. Mummy is about to say something when Sherlock finally blurts out:

"I just don't see why you get to keep seeing my nanny! She's _my_ nanny! I miss her!" He slams his fork down onto his plate sending peas and carrots onto the table.

"Sherlock!" Two voices, Father and Mycroft, roar at once.

"It's not fair!" Sherlock replies dejectedly, slumping into his seat.

"What makes you so certain I've been seeing your nanny, Sherlock?" Father asks with an edge to his voice. "I think you just miss her very much."

"No! I'm not making it up. You smell like her. Like wet dirt and tea leaves. You have her lipstick on your collar, Mummy doesn't wear lipstick. And…"

Mummy has dropped her knife onto the table. She is staring at Father with wide and wounded eyes.

"You said you had stopped seeing her, Vernet."

"I have."

"You have not!" Sherlock screams this time. "You're lying."

"Mycroft, take Sherlock to his room, please." Mummy says softly.

Mycroft stands and moves around the table. Mummy is shaking, Sherlock is starting to cry. The peas are staining the table cloth a lovely color of green.

"It's not fair!" Sherlock rages against his brother and he is hoisted over the older Holmes' shoulder and toted out of the room.

When he is placed again on two feet, Mycroft holds his shoulders and stares him in the eye. "You will learn, Sherlock, you must keep your mouth shut."

His brother leaves.

Sherlock is confused.

Downstairs he hears yelling. Doors slamming. Eventually, he curls into bed and falls asleep.

The next morning he wakes up and intends to apologize for not behaving at supper, and for not being able to keep his mouth shut. He pads down the hallway to Father's study and opens the door. It's a Saturday, and that means Father should be reading the paper. The desk is empty. Not just unoccupied, it's empty. A bolt of fear flashes through Sherlock's stomach and he runs down the hallway to Mycroft's bedroom.

He barrels in the door and into his brother who is just coming from the bathroom. "Father is gone!" Sherlock says quickly. "His things are all gone!"

Mycroft sighs. He holds Sherlock at an arm's length and his face gets crooked.

"I know Father is gone." He says finally.

"When is he coming back?" Sherlock asks. "I have to apologize. I didn't mean to cause a fight!" He is beginning to panic. He feels tipsy, as if he's spun in a circle too long and can't stop.

Mycroft maneuvers them to the window, so he can sit Sherlock on the ledge and stand directly in front of him. "I have never lied to you, Sherlock."

The younger boy opens his mouth to object but Mycroft silences him. "I have never lied to you about important things, and I never will. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Sherlock says finally. "Where is Father?"

"Father isn't coming back."

It is said loudly and without hesitation. Mycroft doesn't know how else to say it.

"He left last night."

"He's gone to stay with my nanny."

Sherlock's voice is small. Mycroft looks around the room and then nods.

"It's my fault." He sounds as if he is about to cry, but his eyes haven't wavered from Mycroft's tall figure.

Another heavy sigh.

"Yes." Mycroft says, then he shakes his head. "No."

Sherlock is confused. Mycroft can tell by the way his small narrow face scrunches and his eyes go dull.

"It isn't a story of faults, Sherlock. Father did something very wrong to Mummy. If anything…." He struggles for words that will make sense in Sherlock's mind. There are tears in his younger brother's eyes and he reaches up with a soft thumb to wipe them away. "If anything you were the catalyst of the reaction, Sherlock. You only sped it up. It would have happened either way."

This isn't a nice answer, they both know that, but little about this situation is nice.

"I want Mummy." He wants to curl up into her and say he's sorry… he's so sorry.

Mycroft bites his lip and wipes another tear from his brother's cheek. "Mummy isn't feeling very well at the moment. It's best we leave her alone."

Alone? Sherlock doesn't want to be alone. He wants his mummy. He wants to cry. He wants his nanny. He wants Father. He wants all kinds of things he cannot have.

Later, when he's older, Sherlock will abhor their father for leaving, for choosing his nursemaid over his mother. He will resent the way their family ended so abruptly, and he will always hate himself just a little for having to say something at the dinner table.

But for now he's just a little boy, staring at his brother with tears running down his face and he can see that Mycroft is crying too, but he doesn't really know why. It's not Mycroft's fault that Father is gone. It's his.

"Are you going to make me leave too?" He stutters out through his tears.

"Why ever would I do that, Sherlock?"

"It's my fault." He says again, sniffing ungracefully and wiping his face with the back of his arm. He looks up at Mycroft with pitiful eyes. "I'm sorry, My…. I didn't mean to… if I could just say I was sorry!" He sobs again.

Mycroft pulls Sherlock into him, and his voice is very rough. "Enough, Sherlock." He holds Sherlock's small head against his soft middle and wraps his arms around the boy. Sherlock often makes fun of Mycroft for being fat (anyone is fat compared to Sherlock's bird bone and lanky muscle), but right now, as he sinks into Mycroft he realizes the soft pillow of stomach is comforting. He cries.

The older Holmes adjusts so they are both sitting on the window ledge. Sherlock clings to Mycroft and Mycroft shelters him with large arms. For a while, Mycroft cries silently. He doesn't cry for his father. He has no sympathy for the man. He cries instead for Sherlock, and for his mother too, and for himself, but only a little.

Eventually Sherlock falls asleep and Mycroft lays him on the bed and covers him with a blanket. When Sherlock wakes up, his brother is gone. Sherlock panics and cries out, bailing from the bed and running down the hallway. He finds his brother coming out of Mummy's room. His face is set in a hard line and his eyes are dark.

There's sick on Mycroft's shoes. Sherlock doesn't remember getting sick.

He tries to glance around the door to the bedroom, but all he can see is a pile of sheets and the fine comforter strewn across the floor. That's strange. Usually Mummy takes great care to fold it onto the rack in the corner of the room before she goes to sleep.

"I thought you left. Did you get sick? Can I see Mummy?"

Mycroft glances down as if he's only just seen Sherlock standing there.

"Why don't you go play for a while, Sherlock? I've got a few things to take care of, and then maybe we can read a book."

His brother walks off and Sherlock follows, realizing later that Mycroft didn't answer any of his questions.

Sherlock spends the rest of the day in his room until Mycroft collects him for dinner. Mummy isn't at dinner either.

"Will Mummy come out of her room tomorrow?" Silence. "Who is going to play pirates with me?"

Mycroft doesn't answer.

The weeks that follow are completely different. Eventually Mummy comes out to eat dinner and wander around the house. The smell Sherlock associated with Mummy is gone replaced by something bitter and sharp, and when he starts to talk to her she just looks past him, like he's not even there. He asks if they can play pirates, or cook. She doesn't answer. She stumbles on the way to the kitchen and when Sherlock asks what's wrong she sends him to his room.

He doesn't understand, but he thinks that maybe Mummy is just still very sad about Father leaving. He hopes things will get better, but until they do he sits in his room and reads and plays the violin.

He starts school again, and Mummy seems very happy to have him out of the house. He is confused. He feels like he spends most of his life confused. He doesn't like that. To gain more control he begins learning, anything and everything he can. He soaks up information like a thirsty sponge, and he fills all the voids left by the loss of his Father and the distance of Mummy with facts.

Mycroft is proud of how much he is learning. When his brother is home for holiday they go to the library and buy stacks of books that the librarian thinks aren't appropriate for a boy so young. Mycroft tells the old woman to kindly mind her own business, and the boys laugh about it all the way home. Mycroft buys Sherlock a microscope for Christmas.

He is nine years old, now, and he's waiting for his mother to pick him up from school. All of other children have left. He's not entirely sure he knows how to walk home. The matron approaches Sherlock and asks if everything is okay.

"My Mum was supposed to be here."

He folds his book in his lap and looks across the deserted playground. The matron crinkles her eyes and clicks her tongue. "Well, is there anyone we can call for you, dear?"

Sherlock gives the matron Mycroft's number. He knows Mummy won't answer the phone.

It's getting dark by the time Mycroft arrives, flustered and angry, all sharp words and deceptively soft edges. He takes Sherlock into his side and apologizes to the matron. In the car on the way home, Mycroft is silent.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock says, gripping his book with bony knuckles.

"What did I tell you about apologizing, Sherlock?"

"I just… I'm sorry to have bothered you at university. I know you have important things to be doing, I'm just a bother… just like Mum says."

Mycroft pulls the car over on the side of the road and turns to face his brother. "Look at me, Sherlock."

Obediently Sherlock turns. He uses his hand to brush the dark curly hair off of his forehead. Mycroft looks uncomfortable. "Remember, when you were seven I told you I would never lie to you."

"About important things, yes."

"You have not bothered me, Sherlock, and there is _nothing_ more important to me than you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock knows he should say yes, yes he understands… but he doesn't really. Mummy doesn't think he's important. Father didn't think he was important. How can Mycroft? How can Mycroft think Sherlock is important when this is all still Sherlock's fault?

"How can you think I'm important, if it's all my fault? Mum says it's my fault Father left, it's my fault she's sick all the time."

Mycroft's anger flares. Sherlock can see his eyes burning. "I've told you not to listen to her, Sherlock, time and time again. Her statements are patently false."

A pregnant silence, and then Sherlock speaks. "They feel truthful."

"She's a drunk." Mycroft says loudly. "She's a drunk and a liar, and she's tearing you apart."

Sherlock feels a stab of pain through his chest. Logically, he knows it's true, but emotionally? He's still a little boy clinging to the hope that his mother will shelter him and protect him.

"She tries her best. Since he left she's just been…"

"It's been two years, Sherlock." Mycroft sighs. "She forgets to pick you up from school. I'm not even certain she feeds you proper meals. She left you at Tesco last week, didn't she?" Sherlock nods his head. "And then there was the time you were sick with fever and she refused to take you to the doctor."

"But it's what I deserve for running Father away. All of it." He speaks as if this is the most normal thing for a nine-year-old to say.

"Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft raises his voice. "I never want to hear you say that again. You are not to blame for this." He looks around and runs a hand through his hair. "It's time to put an end to this nonsense."

He starts the car again and speeds towards their home. Sherlock is silent.

When they reach the house, Mycroft tells Sherlock to go straight to his room. He is going to find their mother. From his bedroom he can hear the yelling. He can hear Mycroft's strong voice and his mother's shrieks. He wants to cry, but the tears won't come. She begins to yell terrible things about their father, and then terrible things about Sherlock, and then Mycroft's voice, louder than Sherlock has ever heard, cuts across her screaming.

Then all is silent.

Sherlock pretends to be working at his microscope when Mycroft opens his bedroom door. "I know you heard all of that."

Sherlock nods.

"I want you to listen carefully, Sherlock, because this is the last time I will speak on the matter and then we are moving on."

The younger Holmes' turns from his microscope.

"Mother is a liar, a drunk, she is neglectful of you, and most importantly she is a fool."

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest.

"No. She is a fool for believing that Father's affair wouldn't have torn this family apart. I said it two years ago, Sherlock. You were the catalyst. This would have happened sooner or later. I'm just terribly sorry I couldn't keep you out of the cross fire." They stare at one another.

"I'm not going back to university." Mycroft declares.

"What?" His brother exclaims.

"I'm going to stay here, with you. Take care of the house and ensure that you're being looked after. For a while, anyway. I will not have you argue about it." He stands and makes towards the door.

"But you're being stupid!" Sherlock argues anyway. "You're doing it for nothing…" Mycroft turns on his heel and approaches Sherlock with astonishing speed. For a moment Sherlock wonders if Mycroft is going to hit him, and then he realizes that idea is ridiculous.

"No. Sherlock, I am not doing this for nothing… I am doing this for the most important thing in my life."

He kneels so he's eye level with Sherlock. "I worry about you, constantly. You, your health, and your safety are the only things that matter to me right now. More than school and more than work and more than the bloody Queen herself… Do I make myself clear?"

"Why?" Sherlock says. His mind is struggling with the emotion and the facts and he really just wants to crawl away. Mycroft leans in and touches their foreheads together, wraps a strong hand around the back of Sherlock's neck. They exhale at the same time.

"Because you are my brother. One day that explanation will make sense to you, Sherlock. I know that right now you're confused and conflicted, but you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Sherlock?"

He thinks back through everything, through the fights and the sleepless nights and all the times Mum had left him at the park or the shop or school. He thinks about how Mycroft had always been more than willing to come to his aid, to pick him up when he fell. Mycroft even played pirates. It's always been Mycroft. The only constant over the last four years. Sherlock nods.

"I do not say it often, I know, but I love you more than anything, brother. You must never forget that. I will _always_ be here for you."

They're foreheads are still pressed together. Mycroft has always been better at emotions than Sherlock, at making them feel real and meaningful and at expressing the words stuck in his throat in eloquent ways. Sherlock doesn't know how to say 'I love you too, Mycroft,' but he clears his throat.

"If you want, tomorrow I can show you my newest collection of beetle carcasses."

Mycroft smiles and leans back. He ruffles Sherlock's hair and Sherlock ducks dutifully, cheeks tinged pink.

Somehow, Sherlock thinks, Mycroft understands.

Mycroft always understands.


End file.
